


Work in progress

by typeroftales



Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-11-07 11:12:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17959400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/typeroftales/pseuds/typeroftales
Summary: Rock star Marshall Burns doesn’t date. So there’s a learning curve involved when he meets gorgeous librarian Nick, because his first instinct is to take him out to dinner rather than straight to bed.With Marsh in Chicago for only six months, Nick decides he can pull off this casual dating thing, no problem. As long as he keeps the rock ‘n’ roll strictly separate from his real life and his daughter, everything will be fine.





	Work in progress

In Nick’s experience the majority of librarians were keen people watchers, himself included. So it wasn’t unusual that he noticed the man. His clothes marked him as some sub-breed of hipster. He sported black skinny jeans, well worn Beatles boots, and a battered plaid fedora. Silver necklaces glinted inside his v-neck and a colorful pendant rode low on his stomach, stark against black cotton. Despite the whimsy of his wardrobe he was a touch too old, and his leather bag much too slim, to be slotted into the role of student.

He was notable because of the way he communed with the books as he moved through the room. He’d made no less than three passes through Nick’s section, disappearing after each circuit, presumably browsing others in between. He trailed his fingers along the spines of the books at his waist, and turned his gaze to the titles at eye level. He walked up and down each side of each stack, periodically pausing to shoot a measuring glance at the nearest workspace. It was as if the particular books surrounding him would affect what he was there to do.

Finally, he set his bag down decisively on one of the tables in Nick’s section. Instead of sitting with it, though, he left again. He returned with an armful of books. He set them down, then left yet again. Nick watched with increasing amusement as he did this again, and again, and again, until stacks of books completely covered the surface of the table. However, when he started piling them on the floor, Nick’s amusement took a turn. He suddenly wondered if he was witnessing an elaborate new method of pranking librarians. Someone, after all, had to ferry all those books back to their proper sections.

After his potential delinquent had situated a tall stack of books on the floor at each of the table’s four corners, the man finally settled into a chair, propping one ankle against his opposite knee. His bag conveniently provided two large pads of paper and a smaller notebook. He caused a pencil case to spill its colorful contents of pencils and pens into a small gap between piles. He took one of the large pads and set it on his crossed leg. He chose a pen with some care, uncapped it, then stared at the paper in front of him for a long moment. He chose a book, seemingly at random, and glanced through it.

This continued cyclically. Regard of the notepad, paging slowly through a book, the scratch of pen against paper, minutes spent staring blankly into space. Nick recognized the behavior and revised his opinion. The man was a writer, and there was nothing more usual than a writer in a library, no matter how unusual his process.

Nick went back to his own work. He catalogued a cartful of books between fielding questioning phone calls and in-person requests. He spent his break at his desk researching kids’ martial arts classes. Back on shift he did some shelving, moving quietly and efficiently through the stacks while keeping an ear out for the muted ring of his phone. He noted that his writer seemingly had eyes for nothing but his own book-barricaded world.

Late in the day he became engrossed in a new volume on Hobbes. So when it came, the soft coughing noise his librarian hindbrain recognized was aimed at him, he was startled into looking up. His writer’s coffee brown eyes met his intently. 

As Nick blinked back to reality the other man’s gaze softened and his smile blossomed into existence. “Sorry,” he said. And the guy was flirting with him. Was flirting even possible with a single word? Did only mere mortals need entire pick-up lines? As if in answer to his bewildered thoughts, his writer dropped to his knees and propped his elbows on Nick’s desk. His eyes laughed while his lips pouted prettily. "I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

The curls peeking out from under the truly awful hat were brown, but they glinted gold when he tilted his head. He had to be insane, Nick decided, writer or not. He was on his knees.

“I find myself in need of a library card.”

It was a perfectly sane statement considering he was in a library. Except that he was on his knees.

His writer grinned. “I’m Marsh, short for Marshall. Is there a form? I assume there’s a form.” He quirked his eyebrow playfully. “There’s always a form.”

Nick sat back in his chair. “There is a form,” he allowed.

“And you are?” Marshall, Marsh, prompted, grandly assuming an air of patience.

“Wondering how few words would give away the farm,” Nick answered honestly.

Marsh laughed, and it was a beautiful thing. For a moment the calculated flirtation disappeared, replaced by pure delight. 

But it was only for a moment. “I’ll do anything," he avowed dramatically.

But he was still on his knees. “Nick,” he said, “I’m Nick.”

Marsh pounced and, sure enough, his name gave way to so much more. “Nick, Nicky, Nicholas.” He paused thoughtfully. “Nicky,” he decided with a nod and a smile. He tilted his head and looked up from under his lashes. It was an impressive move because it almost made him look shy. “Have dinner with me, Nicky.”  
“Before or after you get your library card?”  
“Well, I just assumed I’d need a card.”  
“Oh God,” he groaned.  
“To check you out.”  
Nick laughed. “You’ve just delivered both the best and worst come-ons I can imagine.”  
“That deserves a reward, doesn’t it?” he said, looking pleased with himself.  
“That depends,” Nick countered, “What fate did you have planned for your little bibliographic Babylon?”  
Marsh’s expression turned curious, so Nick nodded his head toward the table where he’d been working. He looked, then turned back and flirted, “Dismantle it and shelve them all like a good little assistant librarian?”  
“You would muck it up completely,” Nick predicted.  
Undaunted, he offered, “Leave it to the experts and apologize with chocolates?”  
Nick decided, “Perhaps you might leave it to this expert and apologize with dinner.”  
“Oh, I knew that was the right table,” breathed Marsh.

#

Marsh was already dialing Amy as he ducked into the waiting car. He said to the driver, “The studio, please,” then into the phone, “I need a dinner reservation somewhere impressive.”  
“Define impressive.”  
“Impressively romantic, impressively extravagant, impressively convincing that I’m amazing.”  
“Marshall Burns, professional purveyor of the one night stand on a romantic date? What will the tabloids say?”  
“What the fuck do I care?”  
“And you want this for when?”  
“Tomorrow.”  
“Ugh.”  
“Don’t pout, you like a challenge.”  
“Dish while I Google, then. Make it worth my while.”  
“Amazingly gorgeous librarian. Think blond Clark Kent, Christopher Reeve era.”  
“Marsh, have you really been waiting all this time for someone brainy to sweep you off your feet?”  
“Stereotype much?”  
“Because I’m sure airheads flock to a career in, um, librarian-ing? The field of librarianism?”  
“Library arts? I’ll report back.” He hesitated and could hear the quick click, click, click of her keyboard. “He does this sexy thing where he peers over his glasses, then he smiles and your heart stands still.”  
She paused. “So let’s impress the hell out of him right back. I’ll find you something sexy to drive.”  
“My bike is extremely sexy,” he protested.  
“Marsh, you cannot pick up a first date on a motorcycle.”  
“I’ve suddenly lost the ability to ride it?”  
“Some people think they’re scary and dangerous.”  
He paused, then granted, “Reasonable. Any other first date rules?”  
“Don’t order Italian.”  
“Completely unreasonable. Logic?”  
“You’re nervous and more likely to spill red sauce on your white shirt. Then you look like a doof the rest of the night.”  
“I don’t get nervous, I don’t wear white, and I love Italian. What else?”  
“Avoid politics and religion.”  
“I worship words and don’t read the news.”  
“Be more interested in him than yourself.”  
“Oh, I’m definitely more interested in him,” Marsh promised.

#

Marsh was nervous. He was standing, bewildered, in the grocery store nearest Nick’s apartment and he was on the phone with Amy again. “Why didn’t you take care of this?” he hissed.  
“Well I’m sorry, Mr. Burns, but before today I had failed to recognize you for the faultless gentleman you so obviously are.”  
“Guys don’t do flowers, right? He’s coming down when I text, so they’d just die in the backseat anyway. Amy, I can’t show up empty handed.”  
“Marsh, calm down.”  
“I have no idea what he likes,” he realized, panicking further.  
“You’re not supposed to, that’s why you’re going on the date.”  
“Not helpful.”  
“It actually is if you would listen.” She sighed. “Okay, he’s a librarian. Presumably he likes books. See if they have anything other than trashy romance novels. Or, hey, that’s a good joke gift.”  
“You’re suggesting I give him chick porn on our first date?”  
“On a good first date you laugh together. What isn’t funny about Fabio?”  
“You’re trying to get fired,” he guessed wildly.  
“Focus, Marsh, books. What’ve they got?”  
He’d somehow stumbled upon the small book section. “Porn with Fabio, porn without Fabio, Dan Brown, fake Ludlum, Nicholas Sparks, chocolate soup for the canary lover’s soul, and the Bible, abridged.”  
“It was worth a try. Marsh, listen to me for real. Guys do flowers, I promise, and nothing’s dying on my watch. They have these neat plastic tubes.”

#

It was surreal to begin with.  
From the cryptic text, ‘Every morning, by the mail, to my wedding...’, to the sleek Corvette purring on Nick’s little side street, blocking traffic both ways. Marsh sat on the hood holding a bouquet of rich purple and gold. He offered it up, telling Nick he was gorgeous before leaning into a breathtaking kiss. He gallantly handed him into the beautiful, impractical animal. During the drive he quizzed him about Chicago, confirming he was new to the city.  
Then they surrendered the car to valet at a restaurant truly terrifying to a parent; everything looked both breakable and irreplaceable. They were shown to their table by the owner who was delighted they had chosen his establishment, and could he just get a quick selfie? The chef arrived, relieving them of the responsibility of ordering and personally delivering hors d'oeuvres. He was a huge fan, and might Mr. Burns possibly enjoy a copy of his new cookbook? On his heels the sommelier poured them wine. He didn’t want to interrupt, but he’d proposed to his wife at a concert, he just happened to have their ticket stubs, and thank you so, so much her name was April.  
Once they were finally alone again Nick asked, “Okay, explain please?”  
“Oh, that.” Marsh’s smile flashed, sharp as a knife. “I’m a rock star.”  
So, surreal throughout really.

#

“Library studies, or library science if I’m feeling self important.”  
“Amy suggested librarianism, which I thought clever but possibly too sibilantly similar to lesbianism for common use.”  
“Here we are. Marshall Burns, a solid rock star name.”  
“My parents have been supportive from the very beginning.”  
“You currently have both a boyfriend and a girlfriend.”  
“It’s weird that once you’re famous strangers take possession of your full name.”  
“They’re both models.”  
“It’s like the adult version of your mother invoking all your names when you’re in trouble.”  
“Underwear models if these pictures are anything to go by.”  
Marsh sat back, taking his glass of perfectly paired wine with him. So much for showing more interest in Nick. It was red wine; he wondered if he should just pour it over his head then demand Nick’s preferred religious and political persuasions.  
“You’re also sleeping with your bassist on the side. Quite possibly at the same time as your assistant.”  
“Nothing under the sun could persuade them into a bed together. But keep scrolling to the speculation about threesomes with my guitarist and his wife. That’s a much more plausible premise.”  
“Every single picture is of you making out with someone in a nightclub. All different someones.”  
“I’ll speak to marketing.”  
“There’s video.”  
“There are also official music videos if you could be persuaded toward professionally produced content.”  
Nick finally looked up from his phone. “You do realize I’d be an idiot if I didn’t ask how much of this is true, right?”  
Marsh resisted the urge to sigh. “I haven’t had a boyfriend or a girlfriend since high school.” He felt his nose wrinkle instinctively. “I’ve never met a model I would willingly date. And while I do enjoy quite a lot of sex,” he sketched a cross over his heart, “I am not currently indulging with anyone in either my band or my employ.”  
“Currently?”  
“Peggy is a hot chick who plays bass. She’s pretty much required reading.”  
“And sex currently?”  
“None in the week I’ve been in town. I’m clean, I’m tested regularly, and I’m stringent about safe sex no matter the act, even when just indulging in a convenient bathroom.” Marsh met his gaze calmly. “I’m not going to lie to you about anything, Nick, and I’ll happily address specifics. Explaining all of that, however,” he waved his hand toward Nick’s phone, “is beyond me.” He grinned. “But hey, I wouldn’t be a proper bisexual rock star if I didn’t appreciate the threesomes they imagine for me.”  
“I suppose it’s nice they want you to be completely fulfilled,” Nick said, dry.  
Marsh laughed. “See? Most of the time it’s funnier than not.”  
Nick pushed his phone across the table. “Pull up your Twitter.”  
“Twitter is your preferred social network?” he asked, delighted. The screen’s background was a small girl wearing a purple t-shirt. Her eyes were crossed and her lips puckered.  
“I occupy a library most days. My Instagram options are limited.”  
“Books,” Marsh protested, “are beautiful. As is this cutie-pie. Niece?” he guessed.  
“Daughter. Chrissy.”  
Marsh looked up from his search for himself. “You have kids?”  
Nick was finally smiling again, though it looked sort of dopily automatic. “There were plans for more, but things change.”  
And...that sounded ambiguous. It felt rude to ask, but on the other hand Nick had just Googled the shit out of him and he’d willingly offered up the entirety of his sex life. “You are currently unattached? Because we might well end up at the top of your search results tomorrow.”  
The smile shifted to amused. “If I was cheating I’m pretty sure she would have been my niece. Brian and I ended our relationship five years ago.”  
Relieved, Marsh glanced back down at the phone, pulled himself up, and handed it back with a grin. “You follow me first.”  
Nick’s eyebrows went up, probably at the number of his followers. He proceeded to scroll instead of being impressed by the next wave of fancy food arriving in the most impressive manner possible. “You retweet science news,” he said.  
Marsh shrugged. “I like to read about science.”  
“And you Tweet the worst puns in existence.”  
“I can’t manage them in conversation, my brain doesn’t work fast enough. So Twitter gets them instead.”  
Nick leaned back sarcastically. Marsh hadn’t realized you could do that. “So you’re just a normal guy?”  
“No, I’m a fucking rock star,” he replied, “But that’s not all I am. And you could learn more by talking to Marsh than by Googling Marshall Burns.” He held Nick’s gaze and saw the change in his eyes when he realized how much of a dick he was actually being.  
He shook his head. “I’m really sorry, Marsh. But this isn’t what I expected.”  
“What did you expect?” He feigned amusement as he finished his wine and braced himself for Nick’s standing up and walking out.  
Instead, he laughed. “I expected to walk a couple blocks and maybe have pizza.”  
Marsh took out his phone. “I will order you pizza right now.” He pulled up GrubHub.  
“I expected our conversation to be about books.”  
“So let’s talk about books. Christie or Sayers?” Marsh quizzed.  
He held his breath as he typed, but Nick hesitated only slightly. “Sayers.”  
“Adams or Pratchett?”  
“Both, obviously.”  
“No,” Marsh chided, “you have to choose. That’s the rule.” He decided on one meat, one veggie, and gambled that Hawaiian was the Fabio of pizzas.  
“Erg, Adams then.”  
“Herbert or Card?”  
“Herbert.”  
“Dickens or Twain?”  
“That depends,” he rebelled again.  
“On?” Marsh queried.  
“Well, thrust into a love/hate scenario I need to know what I’m choosing them for.”  
“Beach volleyball,” Marsh decided, “Because Tolstoy in a Speedo is the best band name ever.”  
Nick laughed, “The image, it burns.”  
Marsh grinned. “They’d be this crazy cross between Nirvana and the Beach Boys; their lyrics would all be in Russian.”  
“And they’d be almost as depressing as Beckett: The Musical. I refuse to be on any team with Twain. Guy’s an asshole.”  
Marsh eagerly pressed, “Lewis or Tolkien?”  
“Fuck you,” Nick pressed back, “I’m not choosing. Inklings forever. And putting them in speedos would be the purest form of blasphemy.”  
“There’s a bumper sticker in there.”  
“Somewhere,” Nick agreed.  
As they sorted out the world of literary beach volleyball and crossed over bands to provide a soundtrack, Marsh let himself relax into it, into them. The panicky feeling that he needed to get really good at this dating thing very, very quickly, receded. This was easy. With Nick opposite and the rest of the world held at bay, this was unbelievably easy.  
The pizzas arrived at their table due only, he was sure, to his name and the truly obscene tip he’d promised electronically. Nick laughed so hard he nearly choked. So Marsh smiled genuinely for the selfie with the determined delivery guy and happily handed over all his cash.  
Over dessert he said, “Tell me about Chrissy.”  
“Insert proud father cliché here,” Nick replied with a grin.  
“No, really,” he urged, “How old is she?”  
“She’s nine and completely delightful whenever I know what she’s talking about. She’s started listening to the Beatles and now speaks exclusively in lyrics. Yesterday, apparently, her troubles were so very far away.”  
Marsh laughed. “A budding musician. Fabulous.”  
“We talked about piano lessons last year but she ended up going with tennis, I think. She likes to take lessons and is only frustrated by the limited number of hours in each day. We juggle as best we can.”  
“Solid parenting.”  
“You haven’t said what brought you to Chicago.”  
“We’re recording an album. The songs are written and the band is now all in residence. Fingers crossed, knock on wood, in six months we’ll have it done.”  
“Six months,” Nick echoed.  
“In and out,” Marsh confirmed.  
“I see.”  
“You should meet my band, you’ll like them.”  
Nick hesitated and Marsh mentally slapped himself. Of course it was too soon to suggest meeting the family. But Nick just said, “Then I’ll have to listen to your music, do my homework.”  
Marsh breathed out in relief. “I’ll give you an iPod.”  
“No, that’s too generous,” Nick protested.  
“Dime a dozen.” But Nick just eyed him sternly so he allowed, “Fine, I’ll lend you one of mine. I can only use one at a time, so the other dozen are utterly worthless.”  
Nick laughed. “Really? Marshall Burns’ personal iPod wouldn’t fetch a fortune on Ebay?”  
“Anyone who pays a fortune for something I’ve touched is touched in the head.”  
“A phrase you don’t hear much anymore.”  
“It’s a good phrase. Actually, it’s a good lyric,” Marsh realized. He pulled out his notebook and jotted it down. And, really, it was a good song.  
When Marsh finally rejoined Nick in the physical world he watched him blink up at him, down at his notebook, then up again. “I’m so sorry. I can’t believe I did that.”  
Nick waved away the apology. “Ideas are fleeting, you can’t let them escape without a fight.” He gestured toward the notebook. “May I?”  
“Of course.”  
He scanned the newly filled pages. “I see you’ve manfully resisted rhyming head with bed,” he observed.  
“I don’t do much rhyming.”  
“No, you don’t, do you?” Nick murmured as he turned another page. The words and lines were a rainbow of angles and curves on the unruled pages. There were colorful stickers and little drawings scattered throughout. It looked remarkably like an adult version of something Chrissy might produce. He read, “She keeps time by the glass and weighs love in lace.”  
“She actually measured in kiwis but as a songwriter you have to make choices.”  
Nick laughed. “Well, at least she won’t recognize herself.”  
“I like songs that either make complete sense or no sense at all. I have no patience for a story that hides behind itself. Of course, everything is context. If I know something you don’t, lyrics that make sense to me might be incomprehensible to you.”  
“Unless I make up my own story,” Nick challenged.  
Marsh’s eyes flashed with delight. “And it’s all a game,” he said, “a beautiful, wonderful game.” He leaned forward. “I’d like to take you out again, Nicky. Please, may I?”  
He hesitated, because the concept of a girl in every port hung over him in much the same way that bricks didn’t. But he was having far too much fun to say no. “I’d like that too.”  
Marsh sat back with a happy smile, but it quickly dimmed to wry. “Then could I also ask you to refrain from anymore Googling?”  
“Probably best to avoid it,” Nick agreed.

#

Nick’s life following that first date would have made for a lively movie montage. It had started innocently enough when Marsh turned up at the library again the next day. “How do you feel about baseball?” he’d flirted, flashing two colorful tickets. But it quickly became clear that Marsh was on some sort of mission.  
When he wasn’t at work or with Chrissy, Nick was with Marsh at plays and museums, art galleries and restaurants of all cuisines. There were more games, a lecture series on Chicago’s history, and an ongoing tour of the city’s niche libraries.  
And everyone wanted to roll out the red carpet for Marshall Burns. For big things Nick knew Amy arranged for the VIP treatment, but even on their lower profile excursions Marsh was recognized and they were fussed over.  
They watched from the front row, or on the floor, or in a box. They were taken behind the scenes, given private tours, and introduced to an array of other celebrities. They were plied with food, and liquor, and everything from penny candy to wristwatches.  
On the negative side they were stopped for selfies about 10 times per hour, had to make sometimes excruciating small talk at the rate of at least 70 words per minute, and were required to be polite to strangers 100% of the time.  
So sometimes they stayed in.  
“This is nice,” Marsh said dreamily.  
Since they were done with the actual sex, which had been far more than just nice, and most of Nick was sprawled across Marsh’s obligatory rock star chest tattoo, he felt the need to clarify. “Me crushing you?”  
“Mm-hm.”  
“I’ve been trained to detect reverse psychology, you know.”  
“What? No, don’t move.” Marsh tightened his hold on him and tipped his head up for a kiss with his free hand. “Hi,” he flirted.  
Nick laughed. “I really enjoy how sex turns you monosyllabic.”  
“Ssh.” He tilted his head thoughtfully, “Bliss.” He kissed him again, lush and happy. “Reverse psychology? Is there some online quiz I need to take to keep us on equal footing?”  
Nick snorted. “No, there’s a degree or two you need to get.”  
“You went to school for psychology? Wait, are you a doctor? You are, aren’t you? You’re a librarian doctor. You should be a television show. This week, the librarian doctor out on a spree! Next week, the librarian doctor doctors a library near you!”  
To stop the terrible, terrible wordplay Nick confirmed, “Yes, I am a doctor.”  
“Then why are you a librarian?”  
“That’s the divorce story,” he advised, “Not suitable for afterglow.”  
Marsh moved his hand into Nick’s hair, rubbing gently. “Tell me anyway?”  
“Really?”  
“You do good work; I feel especially glowy. I can take it.”  
“Your wish, rock star.” Nick paused. It wasn’t a story he was used to telling. Marsh waited patiently, massaging his scalp. “Once upon a time I was a psychiatrist with an actual office and even patients who came to it. I was also as married as I could be without legal sanction and father to an active, beautiful little girl.”  
“All proper and correct so far,” Marsh said softly.  
“As you say. The problem came in when one day Brian and I realized that we were no longer happily married, we were just essentially married. To my amazement, we had grown so far apart we had not one television show in common.”  
“You tried therapy.” Marsh predicted.  
“Of course we did. Psychiatrists are professionally obliged.”  
“But it didn’t help.”  
“Of course it didn’t. I’m here with you.”  
Marsh made a noise that was distinctly unimpressed.  
Nick soothingly traced one of the black swirls on his chest. “Sorry, I was being flippant. I’m very happy to be here with you.”  
“Hm.”  
“Therapy was an unhelpful slog. Brian accused me of being the second doctor in the room, not accepting my role as patient. Later I decided he was right. We were so far apart by then I couldn’t be vulnerable with him. Eventually we admitted we simply weren’t in love anymore. And it was horrible but we genuinely wanted, still want, each other to be happy. So psychiatry, moving on, blah blah blah.”  
“Oh yes, I’m intimately familiar with the blah blah blah therapeutic method,” Marsh teased gently.  
“Except then I got lost in my own head. How, I asked myself, can I possibly imagine I’m of any help to my patients? I had let my marriage fall apart around me. I had made the worst possible mistake by not noticing the problem until it was too late.”  
Marsh dropped a kiss on his hair.  
“And then I was just useless. So I decided to have a proper breakdown and chuck it. I went back for a degree in librarianism and back into therapy, which was helpful once I only had to worry about myself.”  
“Do you still go?”  
“No. I got to a point where I was comfortable with life, took a break, and haven’t felt the need to go back.”  
“And you like librarian-ing?”  
“Even more than I liked psychiatrist-ing.”  
“And we all lived happily ever after. See? Afterglow to spare.” Marsh pulled him in for another kiss, this one long and deep and comforting.  
When they next surfaced, Nick proposed, “Chinese?”  
“Absolutely. Oh, hey, I picked up a butterfly thing, sunglasses. They’re in a pretty bag by the door. Don’t forget to grab it tomorrow.”  
Nick raised an eyebrow at him. “You bought me butterfly sunglasses?”  
“Because you’re my pretty, pretty girl,” Marsh flirted. He got up and began hunting around the room. “You said Chrissy went nuts over the butterflies at the Notebaert, so when I saw these I grabbed them.”  
“That’s really nice, thank you.”  
“No problem,” Marsh chirped. “Phone, phone, phone,” he called, flinging his shirt toward the hamper. “Come on, phone, we need egg rolls. Any phone! My horse for a phone!”  
“Oh, with the misquotes,” Nick groaned.  
“No, I’m simply offering up a horse instead.” He sent a throw pillow flying. “Easier to replace than a kingdom.”  
“And how exactly did you acquire this quixotic horse?”  
“I bought it, thank you very much, with just a little, tiny bit of all my rock star money. Ah! Success.” He held up his phone triumphantly. “For the price of only one horse short. It’s a good lyric. Though I might swap out horse for pearl.”

#

The plan was dinner and the surprise was Steppenwolf. Gary Sinise was doing a new play and Nick was a huge fan.  
“You’re ringing,” Nick called.  
Marsh grabbed two ties from the rack, ran down the hall, flung them at Nick, and grabbed up his phone. “I’m on my way out.”  
“Yes. To the studio.”  
He collapsed onto the couch. “If the place is burning down, Josh, call 911. I have reservations and tickets.”  
“Reschedule. Peggy’s off her head, the gypsy jazz guy’s on another gig, this producer is a dick, and you haven’t exactly been present recently.”  
He blew out a breath. “Look, I’m sorry.”  
“It’s Rod and me sitting around bullshitting with Kate all day, Marsh. I can lay down the bass if you want, but there’s the small matter of someone singing the damn lyrics you wrote. It would really be super if our entire band was working on this album.”  
“You’re right, I’m sorry.”  
“Don’t be sorry, be here.”  
Marsh flinched. “I’ll come in as soon as I drop Nick home. I’ll be there by eleven. Shit, backstage. One at the latest.”  
“Don’t blow this off for sex, Marsh.”  
“You know I wouldn’t.”  
“I thought you wouldn’t, but now we’re nearly halfway into this with only five songs.”  
“Just – I’ll text you when I’m on my way.” He ended the call and resisted the urge to throw his phone. He’d fucked up. He’d been so busy falling in love he hadn’t registered how much time had gone by and how little work he’d been doing.  
“We can reschedule,” Nick suggested.  
“No,” Marsh insisted, quickly pivoting to straddle his lap. “No, I can fix it later, after your surprise.” He kissed away any possible protest.

#

For eight days Nick saw nothing of Marsh but his words. He sent a flirty text every morning asking if Nick was working that day. Then each afternoon a gift would arrive either at the library or at home. Marsh sent him fresh fruit, expensive candies, attractively worn books, fancy teas, and colorful flowers. But of the man himself there was little physical trace, just a scrawl on the note that arrived with each present. He always apologized, then put in a line of near nonsense Nick assumed was one of his new lyrics, and signed it with a distinctive M. On the eighth day he added, ‘Missing you’.  
And the thing was, Nick missed him too. After some consideration, he dialed the newest number in his phone.  
“Hey, Nick, ‘sup?”  
“Amy, it’s lovely to encounter you in real time.”  
“Likewise. Enjoying the parade? I told him he probably shouldn’t send stuff to you at work, but Marsh will be Marsh.”  
“It’s fine, in fact I’m the envy of everyone. The gifts have been lovely and spot on, thank you.”  
“He chooses everything himself; I just handle logistics. So what can I do for you? Need an assassin or something equally extravagant?” She sang, “I have his credit card number.”  
Nick smiled. “Thanks, but I just wanted your advice. I’d like to surprise him.”  
“By jumping out of a cake naked?”  
“Or saying hello in person. What can I say? I think big.”  
Her tone turned teasing. “Do you think you can manage to be less distracting than normal?”  
“Well, I’m at least planning to remain clothed.”  
“Maybe leave your sexy librarian glasses at home.”  
“Clothing on, glasses off, and only one kiss distracting, two at the outside.”  
“That’s a distraction scale I like. Fair deal. I’ll text you the address of the studio.”  
Nick frowned. “I didn’t want to interrupt actual work. Could you just text me when he’s heading home?”  
“Sorry. He turned up at the studio in the middle of the night, fired the producer, and hasn’t left since.”  
Nick shook his head fondly. “He does get single minded.”  
“That he does.”  
“You think it’s all right if I just show up?”  
“I know he’s been sleeping on a couch for a week, and I know he’s been producing a completed song every day. What I think is that he deserves a treat.”

#

Marsh was struggling with a rhyme for rhyme that was better than lime and less overused than time or crime. He couldn’t understand why rhyming suddenly seemed important. Dime danced through his head trailing psychedelic colors.  
“I brought you lemon squares.”  
Marsh blinked. He had taken care of Nick’s present for the day. He was sure of it. The alarm had gone off, he had checked the details, and he had written the note. There was no reason for Nick to be haunting him.  
Ghost Nick offered up a white box tied with string. “They’re good, I promise. I taste tested before committing.”  
“I need a rhyme for rhyme,” Marsh heard himself say.  
“I’m really sorry,” Nick said solemnly, “I’ve only got lemon squares.”  
“You’re actually here.” He reached out and gripped Nick’s arm, assuring himself he was real. He shook his head hard, willing himself further toward reality. “What are you doing here?”  
“I missed you too.”  
He realized he was grinning like an idiot, but he couldn’t have cared less. As lovely as Nick had been all this time, Marsh had resigned himself to being in charge of the wooing. But now Nick was here, he’d brought him lemon squares which were his absolute favorite, and best of all he’d missed him.  
Marsh was being wooed, and it was like nine years of Christmases all at once. The good years for Christmas too. The years you were old enough to remember but hadn’t started getting socks yet. The years you got dressed up for church because the great-greats had still been alive and Pop-Pop had slipped a silver dollar into your hand along with a kiss on the cheek. The years you still believed.  
Then, miraculously, it got even better. Nick leaned down to kiss him and he tasted of lemons and sugar. Marsh’s eyes fluttered shut. It could have been seconds or it could have been years before Nick pulled away. “That’s nearly my ration,” he murmured mysteriously as he stood up again. It was a good lyric. Marsh thought he should write it down. “How about time?”  
“Huh?”  
“Rhyme, time. They rhyme.” He smiled. “You have the weirdest job.”  
Marsh sighed. “Yeah.”  
“Speaking of time, I was hoping to see you sometime soon if you’re caught up here. I thought I’d make lasagna again, so if you didn’t actually like it now’s the time to confess.”  
He had loved the lasagna and desperately tried to think of a day, any day of the week. But the words were just fragments in his head and there was nothing. He was so tired.  
“Ah, the famous Nick, I presume.”  
There were suddenly two Kates in the doorway. “Hey, yeah.” He gestured as grandly as he could manage. “Famous Nick, these are Kates.”  
They nodded. “It’s nice to meet you.” They frowned at Marsh. “Josh sent you home.”  
“I’m not done,” he said, “and now I need coffee to go with my lemon squares.” He pushed himself up, but a wave of gray hit him and he abruptly lost control of his body.  
Nick dropped the box of pastries to catch Marsh as he suddenly started to fall. “You’re all right, I’ve got you.” He pulled him close and adjusted his grip to support his head. Ignoring the alarmed chorus of voices behind him, Nick carefully eased him back into the chair. He dropped to one knee. Marsh’s eyelids were shut but fluttering slightly. “Hey, rock star,” he said softly, “when’s the last time you ate?”  
Another man slid to kneeling beside him. “Marsh, what the hell?” he demanded.  
“Give it a minute,” Nick snapped back.  
The other man spared him only a glance, but reached out to cradle Marsh’s head and stroke his cheek. “Marsh, buddy, what the fuck?” And his tone had softened like melted butter. It made Nick feel slightly less inclined to punch him.  
“Someone get some juice, please?” he called over his shoulder. Then Marsh’s eyes were fluttering open. “Marsh, can you hear me, rock star?”  
“Nicky,” he murmured, his eyes confused.  
“Yeah, you’re all right, sweetheart. I’ve got you. Are you dizzy? Are you seeing more than one of me?”  
“I’m fine,” he said vaguely.  
“Marsh,” Nick spoke more firmly, “doctor librarian, remember? Are you still seeing double?”  
“I – no.”  
“Okay, good. Is the room spinning?”  
His eyes fluttered shut again. “Maybe just a little?”  
“All right, you’re all right, love. I’m taking you home, but I want you to drink something first.”  
“Why the fuck do all geniuses have to be insane?” the guy he’d forgotten about sighed, “Nick, yeah? Josh.” He reached out his right hand, his left still lying protectively on Marsh’s knee. He was lean and muscled with shaggy blond hair and an even shaggier beard, but underneath all that were moss green eyes that held answers if you could only reach them. He was like a sexy Jesus just risen.  
Nick shook the offered hand.  
“And I’m Peggy. All right, Marsh?”  
This woman’s voice compelled Nick’s head to turn. A stunning curvy brunette stood next to the statuesque blonde Kate, and Nick finally understood why strangers fantasized about this band having orgies.  
“Yeah, Peggy, I’m fine.” He turned back to Marsh, overwhelmingly relieved when soft brown eyes met and held his gaze. “Welcome to meet the family, episode one.”  
“Juice.” Kate stepped forward and uncapped the bottle. She took Marsh’s hand and connected the two, making sure he could hold it before letting go. She cupped his cheek and said fondly, “Idiot.” Then she glanced down at Nick. “There’s a car waiting.”  
“You’re an angel.”  
She winked. “It takes most people longer to notice.”  
Nick let out a shaky breath and hoped it might have passed for a laugh.

#

Marsh slept long enough that Nick and Amy met in person a few times as they traded off shifts. She had wanted to take him to the hospital, but Nick assured her they just needed to keep an eye on him.  
He was, quite frankly, more worried about himself than Marsh. It was natural for Nick to feel concerned about someone he’d been seeing for three months. But the rush of relief and affection and, dammit, love that he’d felt when he’d been sure his rock star was really all right, that he’d just been a bit bone-headed about reality, wasn’t healthy when there was a clock ticking on their time together. He was going to feel really stupid if his foray into the world of casual dating ended with him back in therapy.  
Nick was there when Marsh finally emerged, blinking, pajama pants riding low on his hips and a kimono hung from his shoulders. Not one of the silky robes sold to tourists, but a lushly dramatic kimono that trailed luxuriously behind him. The intricate black tattoo sprawled across his chest completed the portrait of careless rock star.  
His expression, however, was sheepish. “Amy says I have to apologize for fainting into your arms. I tried to convince her it was romantic, but she was having none of it. So I’m sorry, and it won’t happen again.”  
“Come here,” Nick said with a sigh. “I’ve missed you, I’ve worried about you, and I’ve watched you sleep. Now I’d like to hold you please.” He shifted, freeing up more of the couch. “Come watch hockey with me. You have ridiculous channels.”  
Marsh swanned over to the couch and let the kimono slip to the floor before curling into him. “My very own librarian doctor. Maybe I should faint more often after all.”  
“Don’t you dare.”  
“What’s Chrissy been up to? Show me the new pictures.”

#

Nick’s pictures were infinitely more interesting than the hockey. “I have no idea what’s going on,” Marsh laughed. “I can’t follow the puck. Sorry, I don’t really do sports of any sort.” He snuggled in further because the warm weight of Nick around him was perfect.  
“Sports of sorts, there’s a rhyming lyric,” said Nick, squeezing him and kissing his ear. “Write me a song, piano man.”  
“That’s a terrible lyric,” Marsh said happily, “and you don’t even know if I play piano.”  
“No, I don’t. Damn your internet embargo.” He nipped Marsh’s ear gently then sucked at it and swirled his tongue around the sensitive shell. Marsh’s cock swelled and his hips moved restlessly. “So tell me,” Nick said, “I rescued you from your tower and I’m owed a boon. Tell me what you play.”  
“I just strum guitar onstage,” Marsh insisted. “I sing,” he offered hopefully.  
“No, you and your lyrics are easy, you tart. Tell me about the music you make. I suspect you’re being self deprecating, and that’s interesting.” Nick’s hand settled on Marsh’s hip and his thumb stroked up his cock. Marsh’s head fell back on a sigh as the pleasure pulsed through him. “Tell me.”  
“Nicky,” Marsh breathed.  
“No, you can’t flirt your way into an orgasm this time. You play the guitar. What else?”  
“Who said I play anything else?”  
“I see you want to learn the finer points of hockey.” Nick moved his hand to a more innocent area. “The gentleman in possession of the puck is a defenseman. Each team has two on the ice at any one time.”  
Marsh broke immediately because he cared not at all about either offense or defense, but very much about how long it had been since Nick had touched him. “I’m passable on bass,” he pleaded.  
“Bass guitar? I’m not certain that’s new information.” Nick ghosted his hand up his bare chest, not quite touching him, making him shiver.  
“It is, it’s different,” he assured him.  
“Tell me how.” Nick’s hand settled on his chest and his thumb circled his nipple, teasing it to hard.  
“Ah, Jesus.” Marsh let the sensation rush through his body, let it focus his thoughts. “It’s a whole different mindset. It’s rhythm versus ego. Bass players are constantly annoyed because people think they can’t hear the bass line. Guitarists are cocky because people like to watch their hands, they think it’s sexy.”  
“Enlightening.” Nick kissed him behind his ear and his hand drifted down, almost, almost, stroking Marsh’s cock again. “What else do you play?”  
“I, please.” He thrust his hips in a bid for contact.  
But Nick’s hand danced away and Marsh whined in frustration. “What else?” he insisted.  
“The violin. I can play the violin,” he said desperately.  
“And are you any good?” teased Nick as he finally dragged just his fingertips along the length of his cock.  
“No, yes, I can fill in if I need to. Nick, Nicky, please.” He was so hard now and desperate to be touched.  
“You’re good, then, but you don’t want to say it.” Nick’s hand dropped to caress his balls, and he let out an incoherent noise as the pleasure thrummed through him. “What else?”  
“I – I can’t, Nick, Nicky, I can’t,” he panted.  
“Tell me, go on, tell me,” was the hot, insistent whisper in his ear. “What else do you play?”  
“I love piano most,” he gasped out.  
“Tell me more, Marsh.” Nick’s breath was hot on his neck and sex with Nick felt so fucking good, better than any sex he’d had before.  
“I, ah,” he arched his back, he had to move, he had to do something, anything.  
“Tell me more, rock star. Tell me about playing the piano.” Nick finally took his cock in hand, stroking slow and steady, like a metronome.  
Marsh whimpered and tried to dredge up words that might be good enough. “You can play anything,” he managed breathlessly, “A piano will give you everything. It feels powerful. It feels infinite.”  
Nick’s hand sped up. “God you’re good, Marsh. You look amazing right now, so beautiful. Mine, just mine, right here and right now.”  
And Marsh had given himself to so many people in so many different ways, but it had never been like this. The idea of belonging with Nick sent him over the edge. He came with a cry in a burst of longing and desire that he simply couldn’t comprehend. He breathed in the scent of Nick and rode out the pleasure that flooded his body in a haze.

#

When Marsh woke the next morning he was alone, so he closed his eyes again and relived the night before. They’d kissed for what had felt like one thousand and one nights. Marsh didn’t remember how they got to bed. He didn’t remember falling asleep. The kisses, though, had been unforgettable.  
Eventually, the fact of the studio encroached upon memories of kisses. He sat up reluctantly, but was rewarded by finding a sticky note on his phone. It read, ‘I suspect you can play anything you pick up. I further suspect you can play instruments much too heavy for you to pick up. I look forward to convincing you to admit to each.’  
The thrill of love and excitement made Marsh dizzy. It was what he wanted more than anything else, to wake up to Nick even when he couldn’t wake up with Nick.  
After that things evened out. Amy sicced herself on scheduling and maximized his time in the studio while maneuvering around Nick’s commitments. This resulted in a significant increase in his time spent as little spoon. Marsh eagerly awaited the bill for Amy’s reward shopping spree; he hoped she’d cleaned him out.

#

Nick began dropping by the studio when he could. He started because he was concerned. He continued because he was fascinated.  
Strumming guitar turned into a night-long duel with Josh, both of them drinking and playing evermore intricate solos. At dawn, Marsh took him home and made love to him with the same blend of intense focus and lazy confidence, leaving Nick grasping for purchase, gasping for breath.  
Another night Nick found Marsh playing a song on repeat. He looked pained and was so upset that he waved away his hello kiss. Nick settled into a corner with a book, monitoring. After another six times through the song, Marsh snarled with frustration and stomped out of the room. Nick followed to find him bullying a drum kit into submission, then watched as he systematically rebuilt the song. Drums, bass, two guitar lines, a gypsy jazz solo on the violin, and three harmony tracks in addition to his lead vocal. After he’d layered them all together and played the finished product he’d heaved a huge sigh. Then he’d turned to Nick and demanded, “Hello kiss now, please.”  
The day he found Marsh at a piano, obviously noodling rather than working, he sat next to him. “Why don’t you talk about it?”  
Nick waited patiently while he picked out Raindrops Keep Falling on Your Head note by note. “Music,” he said, accusing himself of a crime, “is easy.” He abandoned the keyboard and turned to meet Nick’s eyes as he said earnestly, “The writing though, that’s hard. I have to earn every word.”  
“I understand.” Nick tipped his head up for a kiss. “But pure talent is pretty damn sexy.”  
Marsh murmured, “So it’s finally useful. May I take you home, Nicky?”  
Two days later Marsh greeted his arrival with, “Excellent, Rod’s here.” He jumped up and eagerly dragged him into the kitchen where the elusive drummer was eating a sandwich. “You can now stop doubting his existence and fork over my twenty bucks.” He held out his hand, palm up.  
“Marsh? Marsh!” They all startled at the strident demand in the beautiful voice calling down the hall.  
“Ah, the always eloquent Peggy.” And he was gone.  
Rod was older than the rest of the band and even harrier than Josh. This meant he was mostly bright blue eyes with an impression of wrinkles peeking out from a grey streaked cloud. “Nice to finally meet you. How’d Chrissy’s octopus diagram go over?”  
Nick blinked. “What?”  
“Her octopus project. How’d she do in class?”  
“She did well. But how do you know about it?”  
Rod snorted. “Are you kidding? It’s all Marsh has been Googling. Did you know the only thing octopus suckers don’t stick to is the rest of the octopus?”  
It was unfairly cute the way Marsh got about Chrissy, and it was a sharp reminder of the shattered heart dead ahead with his name written on it. He smiled weakly. “Neat, isn’t it?”  
They talked about octopuses until Marsh slouched back into the room and dramatically collapsed onto the couch. “Bass players are jackasses.”  
“Someone once told me they were just constantly annoyed,” Nick teased.  
Marsh snorted. “Someone was under duress. Rod, you around tomorrow?”  
“Depends.”  
“Dude.”  
“Oh, finished your song then?”  
“It disappointingly refuses to get better, so yes.”  
“So, what? We’re gonna take over some poor schlub’s open mic night?”  
“Oh, I have lost my reputation!” Marsh declaimed and dramatically flung his arm across his eyes in mock despair.  
Rod cracked up. “All right, lay it on me, Shakespeare.”  
“The Green Mill offered to bump someone.”  
Rod whistled. “You charmer, you. Sure, let’s play the Mill.”  
“Fab.” Marsh abandoned his pose and whipped out his phone. He raised an eyebrow at Nick. “You’re free?”  
Nick wasn’t, he had Chrissy. But it was undeniably a once in a lifetime opportunity. “I will be,” he promised.

#

The next day Nick found himself tumbling out of a van with the band. Marsh instructed, “Grab anything but a guitar case. Josh goes rabid over them.”  
Josh countered, “Nick’s all right. Librarians know to be careful with important things.”  
Unaccountably flattered, he looked around helplessly for something to carry.  
Kate saved him, saying, “Come on, newbie, follow my lead.”  
Once the heavy lifting was done Marsh chivvied him up to the bar and flirted, “Why, hello, Hot Bartender, I’m Marshall Burns. This is my Nicholas. We’re with the band.” Consequently, Nick was enjoying free drinks and an excellent view.  
Marsh was everywhere at once positioning and adjusting amplifiers, consulting at the soundboard, dealing with endless miles of cables, and practically rewiring the electric system. He apparently carried wire cutters, a flashlight, and possibly a stick of butter on his person at all times.  
He also wrangled his band ably, and always with a side of affection. ‘Peggy, stop what you’re doing with Hot Bartender. Microphones, please. Dude, she’s totally worth the wait.’ ‘Josh, I’ve got this. Go make out with Kiss Me, Kate.’ ‘Rod! Quit hitting on my boyfriend and get your sweet ass over here.’  
“It’s nice to have another girlfriend to sit with.” Kate took Rod’s place next to him.  
“I can’t believe it’s rare.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially, “You know how these rock stars are.”  
She smirked. “Peggy’s guys are usually only capable of grunts and are generally useless. Rod is possibly celibate; I’ve never heard him talk about sex or anything like a romantic relationship.”  
“And Marsh?”  
“Marsh hooks up at gigs, he doesn’t bring people.”  
“Oh, Kate, you do know how to make a girl feel special.”  
She cocked her head. “Marsh doesn’t date, Nick. You’re the first person he’s ever talked to us about. I wanted to give you the shovel talk, but Josh nixed it.”  
“You think I’m going to break Marsh’s heart?” The idea was laughable, not least because Nick was looking at the exact opposite.  
“I’m a little concerned, yeah.”  
“Kate, I’ve seen up close and personal that he can have any man or woman he wants.”  
“And I’m saying I think you’re the only one he does want.”  
Nick shook his head. “I’m just his girl in this particular port.” He was saved from further discussion by the arrival of the man himself in a cloud of excitement.  
He insinuated himself between Nick’s legs and leaned into a kiss. “How do I look?” Pulling away, he spun around once.  
Nick smiled his best bedroom smile. “Delicious.”  
He flirted, “You’re wicked, Nicky, distracting me at work.”  
He was wearing the long necklace he’d had on the day they’d met. Dangling at his belt buckle was a mass of rainbow colors. Nick reached for it to get a better look. The colors were individual plastic tabs. “Guitar picks?”  
“From special gigs and songs. My lucky charm.”  
Some had words written on them in black Sharpie. ‘Birthday!!!’ and ‘1K+ SanFran’. Others bore little drawings. A tulip, a guitar, a television. “Lovely work.”  
“Thanks.” He looked pleased and almost shy. “This part is boring, I’m sorry.”  
“Don’t be. Kate and I are keeping each other company.”  
Marsh turned, looking surprised. She gave him a finger wave. “Katydid!” He enveloped her in a hug, then signaled Hot Bartender and flirted for two Jack and Cokes.  
“How long until word gets out do you think?” Kate asked.  
“Who knows? The internet is weird.” Marsh downed his first drink quickly.  
Josh arrived with, “Hey, baby,” and a kiss for Kate. “Ready?” directed at Marsh.  
“Always.” Marsh moved in to kiss him again and he tasted of cold, sweet liquor. He put his lips to Nick’s ear but didn’t say anything, just breathed there for a moment. Then he grabbed his drink and was gone.  
Watching the band play was like seeing a zoo let loose. The tame, studio versions of the songs he’d been listening to were nowhere to be seen. On stage they were allowed to rampage. Nick watched Marsh sing, and strut, and flirt with the entire room, and he was breathtaking.

#

Marsh raised his glass to the crowd. “A toast to Chicago. I love this city so fucking much!” They cheered and he drained his glass. He then turned and elaborately bowed his band offstage. He strapped on his favorite acoustic and pulled a stool up to the mic. “I haven’t taught the band this last song to preserve their dignity as rock ‘n rollers,” he confessed. He untucked the yellow pick from the strings. “I’ve been having trouble writing lately. Suddenly all my songs want to rhyme or,” he laughed, “worse, nearly rhyme. So don’t be surprised if this one doesn’t make it onto an album. It’s Bibliographic Babylon.” He strummed a desultory chord of intro, then closed his eyes and sang.

“I’ve built a kingdom, and I built it on you.  
You’re the rock that it stands on, this will always be true.  
I used tomes for framework and my words as glue,  
I’ve built a kingdom, and I give it to you.

“Everything good, everything fine,  
You’re all that I want, for the rest of my time.  
We’ll race the desert on horses of gold,  
We’ll wander the forest and be heroes bold.

“I’ve written a boat, you breathed life in its sails,  
I wrote it with stories, gave it all of my tales.  
It whispers at midnight, it murmurs at dawn,  
I’ve written a boat we can sail the seas on.

“Everything lovely, everything mine,  
You’re all that I want, for the rest of my time.  
We’ll ride waves of fortune and skirt tides of woe,  
We’ll live out adventures wherever we go.

“I’ve woven a web, and I’ve pinned it to you,  
I wove it with music when you asked me to.  
Lyrics will take us up into the sky,  
I’ve woven a web that lets us both fly.

“Everything rich, everything rhyme,  
You’re all that I want, for the rest of my time.  
We’ll swing star to star, make s’mores on the moon,  
We’ll picnic on clouds and I’ll play you a tune.

“Everything good, everything fine,  
Everything lovely, everything mine,  
Everything rich, everything rhyme,  
You’re all that I want, for the rest of my time.”

#

They were officially too big for secret gigs in the internet age. Their equipment made a quick getaway impossible so they ended up sequestered, waiting for the police to disperse the crowd.  
When Kate came in with a tray Marsh looked up eagerly, but she was alone. “Katherina the Great, where have you stashed my Tsar Nicky?”  
She handed him a drink with an apologetic smile. “He got a call about Chrissy and had to step outside. You’ll need to give him a private performance.”  
“Fuck, where’s my phone?”  
Thankfully, once he found it there were texts. The first was half an hour old, ‘Can’t get anywhere near entrance. Mob conditions. Actual police out here.’ Then, ten minutes ago, ‘Heading home due to lack of suitably rock ‘n’ roll backup plan. Text immediately you are safe!’  
Marsh sent back, ‘Safe but confined as befits/necessitates rock star status. Please confirm same.’ His phone rang almost immediately. “Nicky.”  
“Hey, rock star, you’re un-trampled?”  
“With a drink in my hand. Chrissy’s okay?”  
“She’s fine. Brian called and I was worried because it was so late. But he just had insomnia and was going through paperwork – and that doesn’t matter. Marsh, I don’t even have words. I really wish I hadn’t gone out that door.”  
“Me too,” he pouted, “I am owed many kisses.”  
“I’ll be waiting.”  
He calculated the odds his band would actually fire him if he hailed himself a cab.

#

Marsh fell into Nick’s arms, claiming his first kisses in the doorway. “You missed it.” He laughed and shook his head in exasperation. “I can’t believe you missed it.”  
“The last song?”  
“Yes, the last song! The best, worst, wonderful, horrible last song!”  
“I had no idea, I’m so sorry.” Nick kissed him again. “You’ll have to sing it for me later. What do you want right now? Drink? Food? Bed?”  
“Drink, please. It feels like I need to settle into spooning.”  
“Your wish, rock star.”  
Marsh resisted the urge to down the glass Nick handed him as he joined him on the couch. He forced himself to sip and deliberately rolled the whiskey around his mouth. He was nervous, really nervous, and as he swallowed he realized that if he didn’t do it immediately he wasn’t going to do it at all. So he started babbling. “Hey, so, I was thinking. You know, my crazy stuff is mostly over now. The album’s close to done and I’ll have more free time these next couple months before we get to work in LA. So, anyway, I thought maybe it might be a good time for me to meet Chrissy,” he blurted out with the last of his breath.  
Nick’s face went blank. “No.”  
His heart sank but he did his best to mask the disappointment. “Still too soon. Sure, I get it, we have to be careful.”  
His voice flat, Nick said, “You can’t seriously believe I’m going to let you flirt your way into my daughter’s heart then watch it break into pieces when you fuck off to LA.”  
“You want to wait until I get back?” he ventured.  
“I want to wait until hell freezes over. You can’t just flit in and out when there’s a kid involved. I’ll always be happy to see you when you’re in town, Marsh, but you can only ask for so much.”  
“But, I mean, I won’t get distracted, I promise. I’ll call all the time. I know it’s not the same, but I guarantee that I’m nearly as delightful by phone as in person,” Marsh assured him, “I know long distance is supposed to be hard, but it won’t be for long.” Then his brain finally registered what Nick had actually said. Hell frozen over. The wave of infinite cold washed over him.  
“Long distance?” Nick looked halfway between confused and angry. “Marsh, you’re a rock star who regularly fucks strangers in nightclub bathrooms.”  
His heart flash frozen, the vulgarity couldn’t touch him. “You haven’t taken me seriously for a single minute,” he realized.  
“You said it that first night.” Confusion was winning now. “Six months, in and out. You put a time limit on us at the very beginning.”  
“You never believed we’d be together, that we were together.” Marsh pulled everything he still had back into himself. Unsurprisingly, he felt empty. He drained his glass and stood up. “You were never in this for me.”  
“Wait, what?”  
“Out of curiosity, what was your endgame? I mean, I get that the perks are pretty good. Food, liquor, other potential suckers to squirrel away for later. And I flatter myself that the sex exceeded acceptable. The song, I admit, is fairly terrible, but you’re at least partly to blame for that so I’m giving myself a pass.”  
“Marsh, stop, wait -,”  
“But I’m guessing it was ultimately about the money. So who’s the highest bidder for all the salacious details of your summer with Marshall Burns? Don’t let them shortchange you. I could send your kid to college if you’re willing to dish about the sex. And why wouldn’t you be? After all, it was just a fling. Feel free to invent a kink or two. It’ll add a zero to your payday and boost my reputation.”  
“You know I would never -,”  
“I know nothing, Nick,” he spat. “I didn’t take you to nightclubs and I didn’t fuck you in bathrooms. I think I made it very clear I thought you were worth more than that. Hell, I thought you were worth everything.” He dug the pick out of his pocket and dropped it at Nick’s feet. “But I’ve given my kingdom for nothing.” He turned and walked out.

#

The guitar pick was sunny yellow and bore the legend, ‘Nicky’. His name was underlined with joyful swirls.  
The plastic edges dug sharply into Nick’s palm as he watched Marsh sing to him on YouTube. He hadn’t slept, but the injunction against Googling had been so strong he hadn’t thought to succumb until early afternoon. He’d felt a sharp stab of guilt as he’d typed out, ‘Marshall Burns Chicago gig’.  
Nick had loved and lost once. Now he was almost glad he’d been forced to live through it, because he knew he wasn’t going to let it happen again.  
His first problem was access. He had no doubt he was already blocked on Marsh’s and Amy’s phones. If he showed up at the studio he wouldn’t blame Josh and Kate for going at him with an actual shovel. At the apartment, best case Marsh could ignore him completely, worst case he would call the police.  
Then there was the issue of what to say. What could he say? I’m sorry. I love you. I was always in it for you, only you. All true statements, but how much power did they really hold? How many times could he say them before they lost all meaning? Why should Marsh believe him?  
While Marsh was wrong to think Nick had been using him, that didn’t mean Nick had done nothing wrong. So it was important he apologize for the right things. He had to display persistence; he wasn’t going to give up on Marsh, no matter what. And he needed to communicate a strong sense of the relationship they had forged; he had to show Marsh that he’d been invested in them, in him, despite believing they were only temporary.  
But how could he communicate these concepts concretely? His mind flashed to the notes Marsh had sent while he’d been working himself ragged. Notes and presents, things he knew Nick would like because he’d cared enough to pay attention.  
He grabbed his keys.

#

Marsh didn’t get mail. In LA everything was intercepted and anything important came to him through Amy. In Chicago he was the lucky recipient of copious amounts of colorful junk mail for the previous occupant of his apartment, all of which he tossed without thought. He emptied the box daily though, because the mailman was only doing his job and Marsh had no desire to make it harder.  
So the large brown envelope addressed to him would have been a surprise if he could have felt anything through the cold, numb emptiness. Inside was a pack of Phineas and Ferb stickers. A second envelope was delivered to the studio that afternoon. It contained a postcard of the Chicago skyline, lit up nighttime pretty.  
Two days and four envelopes later Marsh dispassionately surveyed the offerings spread over his coffee table. Joining the stickers and postcard were a rainbow pack of the finest point Sharpies, five sheets of luxurious cream colored stationary, a pack of tulip bulbs, and a bag of chocolate covered espresso beans. He drained another measure of whiskey.  
A dozen drinks later he gathered everything up and tossed it into the trash, right on top of the junk mail. Then he drunkenly reconsidered and dumped the entire contents of the can into the sink. He doused the lot with Jack, lit a match, and watched it all burn as he finished off the bottle.  
He began tossing each newly arrived envelope into the nearest trashcan.  
Three days later Kate brought him an envelope. “Sorry, I opened this by mistake. Who’s sending you Lemonheads through the mail?”  
That night the numbness cracked like an egg that had been protecting him and he cried himself to sleep. Because Nick had refused to accept an iPod and had never stopped trying to split the damn check. Marsh was more confused and heartbroken than he had ever imagined anyone could be. But he still wanted Nick, Nicky, who knew all his favorite things, to hold him and kiss it all away. He couldn’t trust anything, not even himself.  
He started shoving the envelopes into the dishwasher he’d never used.  
It went on for weeks. The dishwasher eventually refused to close properly.  
Then, one day, there were two envelopes in his mailbox. One large and brown, the other small and white.  
The smaller was addressed in a different hand. The space not taken up by the stamp and Marshall Burns’ carefully printed name and address was decorated with a myriad of crayon drawings. A sun, fluffy clouds, trees wearing every season, an abundant rainbow of tulips, animals in unlikely colors. They continued on the back and surrounded the careful script, ‘C. Hudson-Porter,’ printed above Nick’s address.  
He stared at the envelope all the way up in the elevator. He stared at it while he didn’t drink the whiskey he’d poured. Finally, he slit it open, being extremely careful of the drawings.

Dear Mr. Burns,  
My name is Chrissy, and I am nine years old. My birthday is next month, so after that I will be ten. I like to do things.  
My dad and I have been listening to your music and I wanted to write to say thank you for the stories. You’re way better than the Beatles because your stories make more sense. I also like when you make up new words.  
I told my dad I was writing to you and he said it wasn’t like writing to my pen-pal but like writing to Santa. So, maybe just an elf would read my letter and you might not write back like I keep not getting a puppy for Christmas. But, I told him that’s okay. You have to be a really cool person to write really good stories so I guess you’re busy.  
So, thank you Mr. Elf for reading my letter. I’m sure you’re really cool too. Maybe you should try writing a story. You should try doing lots of things so you know what you like to do best. I especially like making pancakes, drawing, and roller skating. Roller skating is really fun but I can only stop by running into stuff. So I’m taking a class, and also a new dance class. Maybe you should take a class. I’ve been thinking about writing stories too. Also, my dad said he made a new friend who plays all kinds of instruments and maybe I can try one of those next. So maybe one day I’ll be like Mr. Burns and tell stories with music.  
But, I guess you must like being an elf, so that’s good. Please give my love to Mrs. Elf and kiss your babies for me.  
Yours sincerely,  
Miss C. Hudson-Porter

Marsh set the letter down reverentially.  
Then he opened the Nicky envelope. It felt empty, but when he reached to the very bottom his fingers found plastic. It was a long, slim package displaying a rainbow of guitar picks. There was a note. ‘For our future.’  
He reached into his bag for the envelope he’d received at the studio that day. It yielded a Cadbury Egg, six full months out of season.  
Marsh went into the kitchen and gathered the armfuls of variously shaped envelopes from the dishwasher. He opened them up, one by one. Pens of every color and type, a slim volume of Cummings. Postcards of pieces he’d loved at Chicago museums. Orange Tic Tacs. Notebooks and caramel candies of all varieties. Carefully cushioned miniature bottles of Jack. A moss green paisley tie, and a copper clip that glinted emerald. Yellow earbuds, an array of colorful stickers, a zoo comprised of Pez dispensers.  
Some envelopes contained just the little love gift, but others also held a note. ‘I was stupid and blind.’ ‘My song is wonderful. I had to Google for it, I’m sorry.’ ‘I miss you very much.’ ‘I’m not sure mailing liquor is legal, but you’re worth the jail time.’ ‘I love you, Marsh.’  
Sitting in the middle of his living room, Marsh found himself surrounded by Nick’s love for him.

#

Dear Miss C. Hudson-Porter,  
Thank you so much for your delightful letter of 10th October. I read it with great enjoyment after Mr. Ebeneezer Elf brought it to my attention.  
I am very glad to hear you enjoy my stories. They don’t always want to make sense, but I do my best to convince them they should. Others, I admit, are incurable nonsense, but I love them no less for it.  
You are right in thinking I am both very cool and very busy, but I am never too cool or too busy to write to someone as smart and interesting as you.  
I found your advice to Mr. E. Elf extremely inspiring and have shared it with all my other elves as well. To my utter delight they have taken to doing and teaching one another all manner of things. They have begun giving lessons in knitting, graphic novel composition, pancake making, calligraphy, quilting, Ikebana, dancing, and many other beautiful things. I am forever indebted to you for inspiring my elves to make my story workshop so much more wonderful than it ever has been before.  
Mrs. and Mr. E. Elf asked me to assure you they are both well, as are all their babies. They send their love and kisses.  
Because I cannot fit a puppy into an envelope, I instead wrote you a story which is about a puppy. Please find it enclosed. I sincerely hope you like it as much as you do my others.  
Yours,  
Marshall Burns  
Storyteller and Rock Star  
P.S. Please, Chrissy, relay to your dad that I, Marsh, am bigger than the Beatles and better than Santa.

#

“Marsh, play my sto-ory,” Chrissy begged.  
“Marsh hasn’t finished his cake,” Nick said firmly, then somehow magically disengaged her inescapable interlocking Jedi hold of persuasion from Marsh’s arm. “Play with your other friends a little longer.”  
It turned out that a dozen ten year-olds and a well equipped park could kick his ass with astonishing thoroughness. “I’m happy to sing the song again,” Marsh insisted, “and I’ll gladly do the dance again, full out. Just please reassure me we get to send the others back? An extra or two would obviously be amazing, but tinier to start?” he pleaded.  
“I promise.” Nick kissed him, light and chaste. “You’re being very wonderful.”  
“This is much harder work than being a rock star,” he pouted lightly, sensing an opportunity to secure future kisses.  
“Is it?” Nick’s eyes sparked with amusement. “I wouldn’t know.”  
“That’s why I’m telling you.”  
Nick laughed, loud and happy, and it was Marsh’s favorite sound in the world. Except maybe it was tied with Chrissy’s giggles while they read Alice together and did the voices. He had never dreamed he could be surrounded by such beautiful music. “Finish your cake, rock star. You have a story to tell.”


End file.
